


A Temporary Reprieve

by Quinquangularist



Series: Prince With a Thousand Enemies [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Mild Blood, Outdoor Sex, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:22:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinquangularist/pseuds/Quinquangularist
Summary: "Every Creature Will Be Your Enemy, Prince With A Thousand Enemies, And When They Catch You, They Will Kill You; But First They Must Catch You."- Watership Down (1978)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Prince With a Thousand Enemies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1911196
Comments: 53
Kudos: 565





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> So I started an au. The first chapter is lore but its short dw.
> 
> my tumblr is @quinquangularist if yall wanna chat dnf or see the art for the au djsjdjs

Long, long ago when the sun was new and the gods still wandered the worlds, the great spirits made the creatures and the creatures lived in harmony. 

And among the creatures were created a race of hunting beasts, finders, trackers, strong and quick and clever, and the prince of them was called Dream, fleet of foot and quick of wit and daring beyond measure, and the spirits decreed that he would lead the hunters so that they might please the gods, and dispose of those betrayer demons which shamed the heavens. 

And for a time this is what came to pass. 

As thanks for their service the hunters were given life beyond death, so that even after their bodies were broken beyond repair, they would return in a form remade, to serve the spirits and gods. 

Soon, though, Dream grew restless. 

He felt restrained, held down by his people, and in the night he stole away to the underworld, to prove that he was far more capable hunting alone. 

But when he cornered the demon, he did not strike the creature down. 

"Give me a gift," he said, "and I shall let you leave alive." 

And the demon, a three-headed beast of rot and smog and the souls of those ancient peoples who fought the gods, said, 

"Very well, Champion, you shall be the quickest creature that walks the world, you will hear the slightest whisper on the wind, see the smallest glimpse of your enemy, and know every plot against you," and it laid bony hand on the hunter's head and he was Changed. 

When Dream returned from the underworld he had not reached the hunter's keep before the gods spoke to him, and in one voice like white fire, the blinding crash of lightning, said,

**"Prince Hunter, Where Are Your People?"**

And Dream said that he had left them, for he was quicker alone. 

The gods spoke again, 

**"Are You Not Their Prince? Do You Refuse To Lead Them?"**

And Dream said to the gods, 

"I am the most skillful hunter that walks the worlds and it should not be my duty to slow down for those who cannot keep up." 

The gods considered Dream, saw the black hand of the underworld upon his soul,

**"You Have Dealt With Demons, Hunter Prince, You Must Relinquish The Unholy Gifts You Have Been Given, But If You Lead Your People We Will Not Punish You."**

Dream scoffed at the gods,

"These are my gifts, and I won them fairly. If the hunters cannot hunt alone then perhaps they do not deserve the title." 

And the gods said 

**"Very Well. You Shall Not Lead The Hunters Any Longer. You Shall Battle Demons Alone, As It Pleases You, And We Shall Find Them Some New Creature To Hunt."**

And all at once Dream felt his body Change again, his teeth dulling and his sense of smell dampening, he kept the strength of his runner's legs but the will to stalk the wilds left him, replaced with the urge to tunnel and hide, and all the steady grace and surety he knew was clouded over with a sense of true and bloodcurdling fear. 

His immortality had left him, he knew.

And the gods then summoned the Hunters, and they too, were changed, the gods gave to them a thirst for blood, the will to destroy the scurrying things, the hiding things, that which leaps and flees from danger, and they said to Dream, 

" **Every Creature Will Be Your Enemy, Prince With A Thousand Enemies, And When They Catch You, They Will Kill You; But First They Must Catch You.**

**Digger, Listener, Runner, Prince With the Swift Warning, Be Cunning, And Full Of Tricks, And You Shall Never Be Destroyed."**


	2. A Temporary Reprieve

It's the flicker of movement that gives him away. It always is, when they're hunting him. Dream knows how the forest moves, knows the susseruss of leaves and underbrush and the sickening, strained staggering of undead in the night, the scuttling of animals under the canopy, and none of it moves like a hunter. 

The smoker crackles in the mouth of the cave, beside a blast furnace of iron and what few supplies Dream knows he can pick up easily before sprinting away. Orange light spills out toward the treeline and he's just not quick enough to reach shadow before Dream sees him, hand immediately going to the shoddy stone blade at his side. 

Nothing moves for what feels like minutes. 

"I can see you George," he says into the darkness. Dream readies himself to salvage his furnaces and bolt, jaw clenched and hackles raised. 

"I know," 

The voice in the shadows is hesitant. Almost shy. Dream's grip on the hilt of his sword tightens, knuckles white. He's trapped like a rat if the others have him surrounded, the cave is a dead end inside and there's only so far a stone pick can tunnel before they grab his ankles and drag him, struggling and shrieking, back to face his fate. 

"I'm alone, Dream," George says. 

Dream frowns into the shadows, that void where he can almost make out his shape, slender and willowy, where he could aim a bow and take his chances, if he had one. 

"Liar," he says, quietly. 

George audibly sighs, and then he's moving closer, into the light, hands, empty, raised. 

Dream draws his sword, gripped in both hands as he wishes he'd had time to make a shield, and takes a steadying breath. 

"Dream," George takes a step forward, and Dream takes one back, knowing he's backing himself into a cave with no exit but hoping he can turn George around in the dark, slip away, "I'm not here to hurt you." 

"How'd you find me?" 

George offers him a smile, tired and a little sad, 

"I know you," he shrugs, "a tracker will only get you so far, the rest of it is, well, knowing how you think." 

George takes another step toward him, and another, and Dream retreats, only to feel the cold stone of the cavern wall against his back. 

"And the others? Do they _know how I think?"_ he spits, hates that he's sealed his own fate. 

George comes to rest by his furnaces, skin gold in the firelight, 

"Not quite how I do," he whispers, expression soft, and Dream feels his lip curl and pressure build behind his eyes. 

"Shut up," he sneers, but his hands are shaking. 

George sighs again, sits down on a lip of rock by the furnaces and lights a torch with the flame, rising to shove it into the soft dirt at the mouth of the cave before returning. 

"Come out of the dark?" 

Dream's sword gleams dull, polished stone glowing like amber. He watches George, who sits, staring at the chicken cook in the smoker. 

He could dash now. He could probably make it out past George and run into the woods, across the treetops, but not without leaving the food and iron, and without those he doesn't know how far he's likely to get. Maybe if he finds a village or a- 

"It's okay, Dream," George beckons him closer, "I'm not going to hurt you." 

It should be a trap. It smells like a trap. The feeling like some awful bony hand twisting in Dream’s gut says it’s a trap, but then George leans back against the cave wall, tilts his head back and shuts his eyes. 

“The others are asleep,” he mutters, “I told them I’m hunting skeletons for arrows.” 

Dream inches forward, almost hypnotised by the torchlight dancing on George’s hair and the shiny buckle of his rucksack. He could take it. He could stab George right now while he isn’t looking and maybe have enough time to get his iron before he has to run, or maybe he could just take George’s. 

“I can _hear_ you thinking,” George smiles. 

Dream sits at the opposite wall of the cave, in the dirt with his sword still held tight. 

His throat feels tight, 

“Why did you come after me alone?” 

George shrugs, 

“Less threatening this way.” 

“You don’t want to be threatening?” 

“No. Not tonight.” 

George stares at the fire and Dream stares at George. 

Dream’s chicken starts to look charred. 

“You not going to eat?” George raises an eyebrow at him, gestures to the smoker between them. 

Dream watches him, before reaching into the smoker, and pulling the ugly little carved dish from his inventory. 

He eats without taking his eyes off George, barely blinks, one hand on his sword and the other tearing meat off of bone like an animal, a dog backed into a corner. 

“Cold night,” George says. 

Dream nods, 

“It’ll snow soon.” 

“I’m not gonna question how you know that,” George smiles again and Dream feels his shoulders drop, ever so slightly. 

Silence stretches between them.

“If you’re going to kill me you should do it now.”

Dream tightens his grip on his sword, but George just looks at him, something gentle in his expression Dream refuses to identify. 

“I’m not going to kill you.” 

Dream frowns.

"Why not?" 

George shrugs, 

"I don't want to." 

"Well maybe you should," Dream stares, watches George's face fall and the crease form in his brow. 

He bites his lip. 

"Dream?" 

Dream tilts his head. George considers him. 

"If I move closer will you run?" 

"... Maybe."

"And if I ask you to come closer?" 

Dream is quiet for a moment, and then shrugs. 

"I don't know," he says, "try it." 

George almost laughs. 

"Come closer?" 

It's barely a question, more of a statement disguised as one, and Dream finds himself pulled, by very little will of his own, over to George's side of the cave. He sits, one leg tucked beneath him, just out of arm's reach of George, blade still clutched like a lifeline, and George smiles before resuming his previous position. 

A wave of something like relief washes over him. 

It's warm here, where George rests by the fire, calculating eyes so often trained on Dream, so often raising the hairs at the nape of his neck, shut now, lashes long and black as spiders legs against the pale, smooth skin of his face. 

Dream is the one watching now. He feels the thumping of his heart, so loud in his chest, begin to slow. 

The black night moves overhead, sky clear and cold and pinpricked with silvery stars. The trees are silent, they always are when a hunter is nearby. 

"It's alway so quiet when you're around," Dream murmurs. 

"Are the woods not always quiet?" 

"No. Only for hunters. Even the wind would stop howling for a hunter." 

George takes a deep breath, like he's tasting the air, and Dream watches, still, too focused to move. 

"Do you miss it?" George finally looks at him, and Dream feels his insides twist and the hairs at the base of his neck stand on end under those eyes. 

"Yes," he says, and then, "no." 

George glows like he's been set alight, and Dream can't tear his eyes away but continues, "I miss you," it makes his pulse race to say it, "and I miss the others, and this, this is hell, but I couldn't go back." 

"You could. We would welcome you. We miss you, Dream. _I_ miss you," there's a desperation in his voice, like he knows fighting a losing battle, and the lump in Dream's throat returns.

"George," he says, hates how his voice falters, wishes he could be a hunter again, with that cold calculation and fearless drive, "I can't. I'm different now." 

George, somehow closer now, has him pinned under his gaze, and raises a slender, pale hand to place it on his face, thumb just below his eye and hand along his jaw. 

"You are," he breathes, reverent. 

Dream can't help but flinch initially, and then feels George's palm, cool and soft against his skin, like blown glass, and shuts his eyes, leans into his touch, heart pounding in his ears and gut writhing like so many snakes. 

That awful pressure in his chest, that voice in the back of his mind that tells him to leap from clifftops, to burrow, to run at the slightest sign of danger, whispers lowly, bare your throat, play dead, lay still, take your chances between getting to run and him tearing you apart. Give in, it says, he has you now. 

Dream sits, stock still, feels George's thumb move against his cheek, can barely breathe. 

"Dream," George's voice is hushed, low and steady. 

"Hm," it's barely a sound. He doesn't want to move, in case George pulls away. 

George's hand trails down, the pad of his thumb resting on Dream's lower lip, cool and soft, 

"Can I-" 

"Yes." 

George surges forward, his hands moving back to tangle in the hair that curls at the back of Dream's neck, lips soft against his own and Dream gasps, raises his hands to clutch at the soft, tanned leather of George's armour. His hands shake, their foreheads pressed together and George catching Dream's bottom lip between his. 

"I don't want to hurt you," he says. 

"I know." 

"Never wanted to hurt you, I want you to be safe, I-" 

"George," Dream pulls back, raises his hands to hold George's, scarred and rough by comparison, "I know."

George stares at him, eyes deep and dark,

"Let me keep you safe. Just tonight, please?" 

something seizes up in Dream's chest and his breathing hitches, hands tightening around George's. 

"Just tonight," he says, watches George's eyes well up and when he kisses Dream again, desperate, pulling him close, closer, Dream can feel George's hands shake too. 

"God, Dream," he sighs against his lips, "I miss you. I miss you so much," he holds Dream, pulls himself into his space, trembling hands clutching Dream wherever he can reach. 

"Don't stop," Dream curls his fingers into the fabric of his shirt, at the small of his back where his chestplate ends, "stay, George, please."

"I'm here, I'm not going anywhere," 

Dream pulls them chest to chest, wishes he could feel how warm George is through the armour, wishes George could hear how his heart races. 

George's hands move to his waist and Dream flinches. He pulls back, lifts his shirt to check the wound hasn't reopened,, bandages washed and reused so many times they were almost more fray than fabric, the blackened, near- congealed blood seeping through. 

George's fingers hover over the injury, and he stares at it, as though willing it to go away will cure it. 

"Was this… me?" 

"No," Dream lies, automatically, "it was Bad, I think, when you chased me that first morning. Hard to keep track, though."

George doesn't say he's sorry, but he does rest his forehead against Dream's sternum briefly, raise Dream's hand to his lips, kiss his palm and hold him more gently, avoiding his left side below his ribs. 

A crack from the fire has them both bolt upright, before looking back at one another and smiling, and it feels almost like Dream is one of them again, like he and George are equal and his stomach has no reason to clench when George pulls at his lip with his teeth. 

Dream leans back when George pushes, feels his leg fold back uncomfortably as well as the cool, hair-raising sensation of George's thumb pushing his shirt aside to brush his hip, and then the dry dirt against the back of his head, stones digging in as George presses his tongue against Dream's lower lip, holds onto his hip like he doesn't want Dream to bolt, as if he could. 

"Take your armour off?" he says, brushes his nose against George's and running his hands up the back of his chestplate.

"So you can stab me?" George grins against Dream's skin, ever so slightly sharp, just barely joking. 

"Maybe," Dream chases George's lips, tilts his head up and George shifts to curl his fingers in Dream's hair, kisses him with a hum that's almost a laugh, so deeply that all he can think about is this, George's hands and George's lips and George's thigh warm and heavy against his hip, favouring his uninjured side. 

George's hands disappear, and then he's leaning back, unbuckling bracers, chestplate, shucking his chainmail. 

Dream pulls himself up on his elbows. George looks smaller like this, delicate almost. 

He's built like a fencing foil, thin and wiry and durable and deadly. A stealth hunter, designed for precision, designed to strike at the jugular. A shiver snakes up Dream's spine and he rests his hand over his own neck, despite knowing George would much rather kiss than kill him right now, feels himself heat up when George looks back at him. 

"What?" 

Dream shrugs, something drops out of his hair, bounces off the cave floor, and George smiles in that affectionate, slightly disbelieving way of his, raises a hand and says, 

"Wait here." 

Dream sits up, leans against the packed earth wall, and watches as George stalks off into the night, the insects and birds silencing their chirping where he moves through the trees. 

Dream shakes his hair out, hears the pebbles and hard flakes of dirt fly off into the cave. 

Breath returns to him, although the smell of hunter lingers on his skin, not nearly as discomforting as it should be. When George returns he carries a cauldron, full of water. He sets it down where the cave curves inward, lights a small fire beneath it. 

Dream watches him as he takes a bar of tallow soap wrapped in cheesecloth from his inventory, and then his bedroll,things Dream never really has the resources or time to make, either trades in villages for or does without, which he lays out flat toward the back of the cave. 

"Have you got a bedroll?" he asks, voice hollow and resonating in the cavern. 

"No." 

"You've been sleeping on the ground?" 

He nods,

"When I sleep, yeah." 

George allows the fire to die down under the cauldron. 

"Come here," he says. 

"No, thank you." 

"Clean targets are harder to track, Dream." 

Dream frowns, 

"No, because dirt masks-" 

"-You smell of blood." George's voice isn't cold, necessarily, just matter-of-fact, but it does make Dream start. He points at Dream's side, where his wound stings like it knows someone's drawing attention to it. 

"I thought it was old blood, and that fades, but it's fresh, and it needs to be cleaned, so do your clothes, and then it needs to be covered up, with enough layers that it doesn't register." 

Dream shudders, watches the gold of the firelight in George's eyes, near black.

"You can smell that?" 

George nods, dips his hand into the water. 

"You can't?" 

"M'not as good at that. Better hearing than smell." 

"Right, yeah, for sensing um-" George doesn't say hunters, but Dream nods. George rises, holds out a hand, and Dream takes it, lets himself be pulled up, surprised by the compact strength of him. 

"Can you raise your hands?" George looks pointedly at his side, the brown-black mark on the fabric of his shirt. 

"Yeah." 

"Could you, please?" 

"Oh! Um-" Dream stretches his arms as carefully as he can toward the cave ceiling, so as to avoid reopening anything. 

George pulls his shirt up and over his head, slowly and gently, and Dream feels his skin erupt in shivers almost immediately, more from exposure than chill. 

George looks up at him, and Dream is suddenly painfully aware of every nick, scar and scratch open to the air, every inch of skin that George can see, now. 

George smiles, playful,

"How tall are you, anyway?"

Dream shrugs. 

"Tall enough, I guess."

"Too tall," he murmurs, placing the shirt atop his rucksack, "I nearly passed out that time you ran at me with a knife." 

"You were chasing me."

George nods, leads Dream by the hand toward the cauldron, black cast iron and big enough to tan leather in. 

"I was chasing you," he concedes, "you can take those off yourself, right?" he says, gesturing downward. 

Dream nods, toes his boots off, along with his filthy socks, blood and sand and healing blisters sticking painfully. He strips down to his underwear, turned away but feeling George's eyes on him still. 

"Oh wait," George catches his forearm, "let's get those bandages off first, yeah?" 

"Yeah, sure." 

Dream unwraps layer upon sticky layer, not bothering with gentleness, fingertips red-black and smelling of copper.

He gets to the final few lengths of fabric, which come away bright red. His hands shake as he looks at them. 

"What _is_ that?" George squints at his wound, the makeshift tangle shoved against it to stem the bleeding. 

Dream picks at it, licks some off his finger and almost doesn't wince at the taste of metal that cuts the sugar. 

"Sphagnum moss, boiled, to soak up the blood, honey, to disinfect, and I boiled willow bark with the moss," George stares at him, lip curled and eyes wide, "it dulls pain," Dream explains. 

"...Right." George says, "How um- how resourceful of you." 

"Easier to find than real bandages, out here." 

Dream can feel George's eyes trace along his back, along the tiny scabs from shoving himself through cave tunnels, the scars of old sword slashes and the silvery, slightly numb patches of ghast-burns and past witherings. 

George's hand comes to rest on his upper back, and Dream feels proud of not jumping. 

George kisses his shoulder, 

"I missed your freckles." 

  
  


The water is hot, comfortingly so, despite stinging the wound and George hands him the soap and cloth, 

"Wash what you can reach, I'm going to take these," He gathers up the clothes, "and scrub them by the river. I won't be long, and try not to agitate that too badly," he nods at Dream's side, where fronds of moss are floating up to the surface of the water, dyed crimson. 

Dream washes his face. He feels days of dust and sweat melt away under the cloth and the water, and then he rubs the cloth on the soap that smells of rosemary, washes his shoulders, his arms, his hands, digging the filth out from under ragged nails and scrubbing the stains from the lines of his palms, his knuckles. 

He's surprised he fits, not least because George had had this in his inventory. They had probably traded for shulker boxes or ender chests, so they could carry more than humanly possible. Dream had no such space-warping trinkets, and probably never would. 

He does have a bath though, and Dream leans back against the lip of the cauldron, draws his knees up so that he can lower himself into the water, submerges himself, all the way up to his neck, and sighs. 

The surface of the water ripples under his breath, and Dream thinks if he tries, he might just be able to relax here, to let his limbs go loose and breathe in the smell of rosemary and woodfire and shut his eyes and not tense up at every noise. 

He arches up to stretch, hands above his head, and ignores the lancing heat that shoots through his chest in favour of the. gentle pop his back gives, before settling back down, body softer, somehow. 

He waves a hand beneath the water, to flush out the wound, and watches the clotted lumps of black flutter away in the current. 

It's deep. 

The kind of cut that calls for stitches, when you have the time for that sort of thing, or a needle, or thread. 

A wisp of scarlet curls up and away from the broken skin, smoke from a burnt out candle, and Dream resolves to ignore it while he washes his legs, rubs the dirt off the skin and the tension out of the muscles there. 

George returns with an armful of clothes, hangs them inbetween smoker and blast furnace, along a straight, thin branch, snapped off and pared down with his shiny iron axe. 

"You look happy," he grins, only barely teasing, and Dream smiles back, 

"I forgot what it felt like to not ache," he says. 

George removes a long, thin box from his pack, along with a carved wooden cup, sets both down by the cauldron and kneels beside it. The box looks as though it's made of jade, with an intricately carved eye as its latch. 

George leans on the lip of the cauldron, eye level with Dream. 

"Hi," he says. 

"Hey," Dream curls forward, rests his forearms on his knees. 

George raises the cup,

"Let me wash your hair?" 

Dream blinks, feels the anxiety twist in his gut at the thought of a hunter behind him, out of his eyeline with the means to drown, choke, snap his neck, slam his head against the lip of the cauldron. 

But then, it's George.

"Yeah, okay." 

George smiles like Dream hung the moon, and shuffles on his knees over Dream's shoulder, before moving back around slightly, so that he's just in his periphery. 

"I'll stay where you can see if you want," he says, "I know you know I don't mean any harm, but, I don't want you to be uncomfortable," and Dream could cry. He nods instead, lays his warm hand over George's cold one, over the rim of the cauldron. 

"Thank you," he says. 

George smiles, 

"Of course. Lean your head back for me?" 

Dream lets his head fall back, feels the warmth of the water against his scalp as George picks the worst of the detritus away, a twig or a leaf, avoiding the tangles stuck with blood or dirt. He works the tallow soap into a lather between his hands, 

"It's only soap," he says, "but it's better than nothing," and begins to rub his fingertips into Dream's hair, starting at the ends that froth and bubble deep brown, and then beige, and then with white froth, as he works his way toward the roots. 

George's fingertips almost tingle at the nape of his neck, as he feels the gentle push and pull and hears the bubbling. He lets out a deep breath, and George hums a laugh, 

"I'm still finding sticks in here," he says. 

"Mm," says Dream, without processing any of it. 

Dream feels boneless, like George could pick him up and throw him in the air and he'd float away rather than come back down. 

He says as much, and George trails his left hand down his back, gentle, 

"Good," he says, "I want you to feel good, I want you to feel safe." 

"I do," Dream murmurs, leans back against the hands that have returned to his scalp, gentle but insistent. 

George fills the cup, pours it over the back of his head and Dream watches the water get slightly cloudier. 

"Head up for me, please," George breathes. Dream feels a hand, warm now, at his jaw and he leans back again obediently, not realising he's leaned forward again so far that his knees almost touch his chest. 

The hand moves from his jaw to his forehead, and Dream feels the warm water over the top of his head, his hairline and temples.

"Thank you," says George, and Dream nods, wonders vaguely why George's hands haven't withdrawn when he feels them rub across the back of his neck and shudders. 

"Can I help with your back?" he says, softly, leans forward to kiss that same place on his shoulder. 

"Yeah," Dream nods, "sure," trying not to sound as touch-drunk and shivery as he feels. 

George takes the cloth from him, and strokes across his shoulders in a broad, sweeping motion, before rubbing in little circles, just barely pressing into the muscle, clearing away filth and residual sweat and grass stains and the small, sharp stones that occasionally embed themselves in the scabs one gets crawling through tunnels. 

"Y'know," he says, "I've always loved your shoulders. You used to look like you could hold the world up." 

Dream sighs and it turns into a yawn, wide enough that his jaw cracks, 

"Sorry to disappoint," he mutters, half mocking. 

"You didn't," George squeezes the cloth out into the water, "I put you on a pedestal, but you're much better than just someone to admire to me now," 

"Yeah? How's that?" 

George hisses as his shirt sleeve dips into the water, and Dream listens to the shuffling of him pulling it over his head, folded neatly to be placed on the bedroll. He opens the jade box, pulling out swathes of fluffy white fabric. 

"What?" 

"How is it better? Now, I mean." 

"I don't know, you're… you're real. This is you. Now come on up and out and i'll have a look at that cut of yours," George grunts softly as he rises, dusts his knees off. 

Dream's skin erupts in goosebumps in the cold night air, and then George hands him something soft, 

"Here," he says, "get dry and try not to get cold."

Dream nods, scrubs the towel over his hair and then shakes his head, steps out onto the stone cave floor, dries quickly, trying and failing not to stain the towel when he reaches his side. 

He returns to George, laying out bottles and rolls of gauze,

"I got blood on it," he says, "I'm sorry." 

"It's fine," he shakes his head, hands Dream some new piece of cloth and motions for him to stand nearer the firelight "get decent and then let me see?" 

Dream steps into the underwear, soft and clean, smelling vaguely of ozone and rosemary soap, and then shuffles forward, tries to keep his hands out of the way. 

George sits back on his heels, eyes level with the wound, and douses another fold of pale cloth in some substance from a vial, before raising his free hand to Dream's hip, steadying,

"This might sting," he says. 

Dream shrugs, "Okay." 

Dream tenses when the cloth touches him, which makes him bleed worse, and George murmurs, "Relax," in the kind of tone that does anything but calm him, thumb pressed into the meat of his hip, and wiping at the blood as it falls. 

Dream watches George, flinching at every touch, and for a moment George lingers, very still, and Dream worries he's going to bite at the wound or shove his thumb into Dream's side, but he doesn't. Instead he carefully plucks an errant piece of string that had frayed from the cloth away from where it's caught, stuck in the congealing blood. 

"I think this needs stitches," George says. 

"Its fine."

"It's not. This definitely needs stitches. Hold on."

George cleans his hands off, with the silvery liquid from the first vial, before reaching deep into the enderchest, deeper than a box that size should go, and pulling out a set of vicious looking silver needles that glint in the flickering light, along with a spool of thread, pale and almost translucent. 

He squints up at Dream, 

"Maybe you should lie down for this," and nods toward the bedroll. 

Dream sits, before lying flat on his back, the give of the bedroll like the warm embrace of a friend. 

"I miss beds," he says. 

George pats his thigh in sympathy and then states,

"Fuck," under his breath.

"What?"

"What?" 

George looks up from his thighs like he'd genuinely misheard. 

Dream bites the inside of his lip. 

"Never mind," 

George sets himself down, a leg either side of Dream's, and strings the thinnest needle he can find before biting off the end of the thread. 

He looks down at Dream. 

"You probably don't want to look at this part."

So Dream stares at the cave ceiling, notices a vein of coal he'll have to retrieve later, and tries not to think about George sitting on his thighs. 

The pain of the stitches is similar to the pain of the wound itself, although newer, and Dream finds it much easier to avoid flinching under this than the searing, chemical pain of the cleaning. 

Minutes pass and then George's breath is uncomfortably close to the injury, and then the thread is broken. 

"Almost done," says George, staring down at him and Dream finds himself full of butterflies, some great pressure pushing behind his sternum and blood rushing to his face. 

Dream sits up, legs crossing, and feels the gentle pull of the new, neat line just below his ribs, the wound cleaner than it's looked in days. 

"Hey," and George's hands are in his field of vision, deftly wrapping bandages around his front, kneeling in front of him. 

He's gentle, careful and fastidious, and Dream can feel his slow breaths on his collarbones. When he raises his head, he's at eye level, and the firelight suddenly isn't as harsh anymore. He smiles, familiar and warm, and Dream feels himself smile back, 

"That should do it I think, but I'll leave the bandages with you just in case-" 

"George?" 

"Hm?" 

"Kiss me?" 

Dream feels the give of the bedroll before he registers George’s hands on his chest, one shifting up to tangle in his damp hair as George collides with him, leans down carefully to press kisses from his mouth down the line of his jaw, toward the side of his neck and Dream spreads his thighs to make room, welcomes the weight of George’s hips by his own. 

George takes a deep breath, presses his lips to Dream’s neck and Dream lets his head fall to the side, runs his hands over George’s back and gasps as George presses his tongue flat against his pulse.

“I miss you,” George says, grazes Dream’s skin with his teeth and Dream shudders uncontrollably, pulls George down so that he’s pressed down the length of him, “miss this.” 

“George,” Dream feels the hand in his hair tighten, tilts his head back so that George can work a mark into his skin, his thigh pressing down between Dreams as heat coils up low in his gut, "please," 

George hums deep in his chest, trails his free hand down Dream's ribs, careful to avoid bandages, and places it at the crease of his thigh, runs his thumb over the soft skin, where there are no scars, and Dream curls his leg up over George's, feels his fingertips sink into the tender, vulnerable give of him, shudders and sighs. 

"God, Dream," George kisses the mark he's made, and then the base of Dream's throat, feels the movement of him swallow and the vibrations when he hums in response, eyes shut tight and short nails harmless as his fingers twitch against George's shoulder-blades. 

George extracts his hand from Dream's hair, takes Dream's in his own and intertwines their fingers, presses down beside Dream's head as he bites down again, gently, and smiles against Dream's skin as he twitches, draws in a sharp breath. 

The sharp pressure sets Dream's heart racing, almost dizzying as George shifts his grip around the outside of his thigh, lets Dream raise it up to curl further around him, fingertips digging into George's back. 

"Please, George," Dream's breathing hitches and George rises to kiss his lips, licks into his mouth and shifts forward, new pressure driving a moan from Dream.

George hums, sucks Dream's lower lip before biting down softly. 

He pulls on Dream's waistband and Dream lifts slightly, attempts to buck up against George as he strips him, but a sharp, piercing pain rips through him and he cries out, clenches his jaw. 

"Dream?" George sounds so different, unsure and concerned, and Dream looks at him, offers a smile, 

"I'm okay," he says, "I can continue, it's fine."

George scowls, 

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not going to ruin your stitches." 

"But I want to-" 

"And we will. Just, for now, let me..." George stands, takes his boots and trousers off, and lies next to Dream on the bedroll, turned onto his side. 

Dream turns to face him, shoving his own underwear down with his legs, which George snickers at. 

"Hi," Dream breathes. 

"Hi," George tucks a stray wave of hair behind Dream's ear and kisses him gently, rests his hand on his cheek, expression soft. 

His brow lowers, and Dream watches him think, curled toward him.

"Can you lie on your other side, Dream?" 

Dream blinks, 

"I think so, it's far enough toward the front that I should be able to," 

George moves his hand away, motions for Dream to turn over and smiles when Dream hesitates, 

"I want to try something," he says, fumbles behind him for another of the little glass bottles, "just trust me." 

Dream turns, and doesn't like that he can't see George, but then he feels the hot press of skin against his own, and George wraps his arm around Dream, kisses the nape of his neck and runs his fingers down over his chest. 

"Can you bend this leg?" he asks, spreading his hand Dream's right thigh. 

Dream nods, and George murmurs "Thank you," into the skin of his shoulder, pulling his leg back toward his chest and just resting his hand there a moment, breath hot along Dream's spine, "love your thighs," he says, and pride and heat bubble in Dream's chest. 

"Yeah?" 

"Mm, yeah. Keep it there for me, please?" 

Dream tucks a hand behind his knee, pulled toward his chest while George's hand trails closer to his hip. Dream's calf twitches, and he fights the urge to bite down on his own knuckles. 

"Love your thighs, love your neck," George kisses the base of his neck and the warm pressure in Dream's chest deepens, "love your hips, love your hair," he draws in a breath, "love the way you smell," and bites the spot he'd kissed, makes Dream gasp, "the way you taste, the sounds you make." 

Dream shifts back, presses himself against George as best he can, 

" _Please_ , George," 

"Oh alright, since you were polite about it;" Dream feels George's hand disappear from his hip, "this is going to be cold," he murmurs and then he's pressing fingertips up and into Dream, careful and slow while Dream clutches his leg, gives in and bites into the back of his thumb rather than whine.

George's free hand curls up in the hair at the nape of Dream's neck and he tugs gently so that Dream's head tilts back. Dream feels George kiss and lick the skin connecting his neck and shoulder, and moans, muffled. 

"So good for me," George speaks into his skin, biting down as Dream arches his back, leg twitching with the sensation of stretch and pressure and teeth grazing his neck. 

Dream shudders, feels goosebumps raise where George's breath cools him and holds his knee back further, the cathartic pull of the back of his thigh offset by the white-hot push of George's fingers as he runs his free hand through Dream's hair. 

"Tell me if you start to hurt, we can still do this another way," George says, working a third finger in alongside the others and chuckling affectionately when Dream moans. 

"More, George," Dream releases his hand, curls it tight into the bedroll as he pants, "I'm okay, I don't hurt I'm fine, fuck me please? Please?" 

There's a silence as George's fingers still, and Dream wants to whine, wants to ask why he stopped, but then they withdraw and George breathes, 

"Fuck, Dream," 

His voice is strained and Dream feels the pull of George' suddenly shaky hand in his hair.

Dream hears deep, steadying breaths behind him, and then George's hand on his hip, moving up to hold his thigh,

"You can let go now," he says, and Dream extricates his hand, slots his fingers inbetween George's.

George rises, leans over to kiss the corner of Dream's mouth, and Dream twists, moves to cup George's jaw as he hums into his mouth.

He doesn't say he loves him. 

They don't, anymore, but Dream wishes he could.

And then George is pulling away, running his thumb over the skin of Dream's thigh in gentle semicircles, and he kisses Dream's shoulder as he pushes in, slow and steady, hot and slick and altogether too much and Dream gasps, can't make a sound. 

George's breath is hot and damp at Dream's neck as he murmurs,

"Need a break?" 

Dream shakes his head, breathless, clutches at George blindly, and breathes, 

"Move," 

It's like a dam breaks. 

The sound that George makes is more snarl than anything else and the grip on Dream's thigh shifts as he sinks his teeth into Dream's neck, thrusts deep and fast and hard.

"Fuck!" 

George tugs his head back and Dream feels his thigh muscles twitch, the bruising pressure of George's fingers grounding. 

George's breath is hot and every downstroke punches these pathetic little moans out of Dream but he can't stop himself, the shame of it doing nothing to silence him. 

Has George always been like this? 

Dream reaches back over his shoulder to hold onto George, something, anything to steady him as George rocks down, pulls Dream's leg back to get deeper and then Dream feels the hand that had been curled in his hair push under him, curl gently around his neck.

There's no pressure, just warmth, but Dream cries out regardless when the next thrust pushes his throat up against George's palm, voice strangled. 

"Shh," George says, "it's okay, I'm here, I've got you," his thumb strokes up and down Dream's neck and then halts, seemingly satisfied. 

It's right over his jugular, and that deep fear that Dream can't seem to drive away feels different somehow, feels _good._

George pulls him back against his chest, bites down on Dream's ear. He pulls out almost completely and then pushes in deep, and Dream screams before a hand slaps over his mouth,

"Gotta be quiet, Dream, we're out in the open," George growls, and Dream shudders, whines weakly. 

"George, please," 

"I know," he pants, "I know, I've got you, baby," his hand returns to where it was and his brutal pace slows. 

Dream could cry with the sudden lack of stimulation,

"George no, no don't stop," he grasps at George's hip, tries to grind back on him.

George grips him hard and pushes in deep, biting into Dream's shoulder when he moans,

"Calm down," he says, licks the spot he's just bitten, "I'm trying to think of ways to keep your mouth busy," 

Dream twitches at that and George chuckles warmly, right behind his ear,

"You want something to do, Dream? Something to help you keep quiet? It must be so difficult." 

Dream nods, swallows against the George's hand, feels his grip shift upward as George kisses the soft skin behind his ear and murmurs,

"What about my fingers baby? You wanna suck on my fingers while I fuck you?" 

George waits for Dream to agree before cool fingertips press against his open lips, his tongue, and Dream does his best to close his mouth around them without biting down or drooling, licks inbetween and revels in the groan he hears behind him, the involuntary push of George's hips, 

"Good boy," George's voice shakes, and Dream hums around him.

George manhandles his head back, arched so that he can fuck into Dream and still reach up to bite at his neck and shoulder. They must be bruised by now, Dream thinks, and isn't really deterred by it. He feels George pick up his pace, heavy, punched out breaths hitting his shoulderblades and deep, hot pressure building inside him. 

He sucks on George's fingers and feels them twitch against his tongue, moans as George thrusts deep, sensation white-hot and blinding. 

Dream can feel his thighs shaking, the muscles contract under George's grip and the tight coil in his gut twists, threatens to snap. He pulls George's fingers with shaking hands, feels them slide down, slick and warm against his throat, and George pants, 

"What?" 

"George- George I'm close, please," 

"Fuck," George shifts his grip, holds Dream's thigh back with his wrist, and finally, finally gets a hand around him, weeping and neglected, 

"Fuck! George!" 

George fucks him deep and long and flicks his thumb over the head, angle awkward but more than enough, and Dream lets out a thin whine, cut off abruptly every time George bottoms out,

"Come on darling, you've done so well, so good for me, come for me, Dream," 

Dream gasps, shudders, and feels George's teeth in his neck as that coil releases and that burning, blinding heat overtakes him. 

George pulls his thigh again, grip sticky now, and Dream shakes and twitches, muscles clamped down and convulsing as George fucks him through the aftershocks, mouth still closed around Dream's skin and Dream feels his tongue against his neck as he trembles, too far gone even to moan now and barely aware as George slows, falters, and moans, gives a few short, desperate thrusts and Dream feels the warm pulse of him before there is a moment of stillness. 

And then George releases his thigh gently, pulls out as slow and careful as he can. 

He runs his hand up to Dream's hip, moves so that he's curled, pressed tight against every inch of Dream's skin he can be, lets his hand fall away from Dream's neck and strokes his shoulder so softly, curls his arm around Dream so that his hand rests just above Dreams heart. 

George kisses his back, and Dream can feel him trembling. 

"George?" he says, and his voice is hoarse. He blinks, feels the uncomfortable pull of drying tears against his cheek, along the bridge of his nose.

George doesn't answer, he just breathes deep, presses another kiss into Dream's shoulder.

Dream curls his hand around George's, laces their fingers, dirty now, over his sternum, rubs the pad of his thumb along George's. 

He feels George's fringe tickle his skin as George presses his forehead against him. 

"Are you okay?" 

Dream feels the nod before he hears George, 

"I'm fine," he says, voice thick. 

Dream frowns, shifts forward and turns onto his back, keeping hold of George's hand, and feels the pull of his stitches for the first time in what feels like hours, 

George meets his gaze, dark eyes reddened, and Dream offers him a smile. 

"It's okay," he murmurs, "I'm crying too," and George laughs, pulls himself up to kiss Dream, more gently than he's kissed him all night, perhaps more than he ever has. Dream shuts his eyes, feels George's hand untangle from his to cup his jaw. 

George pulls back. 

"You literally just had a bath and now you're filthy again. I'm so sorry," he whispers, and Dream begins to giggle. He grins wide, tries to stifle it, but he's wheezing now, and George is laughing too, with his dirty hand on Dream's jaw and tear tracks drying on his face. He finds the wherewithal to kiss George again between hard-won breaths, cheeks aching slightly. 

Dream curls an arm around George, throws his leg over George's calf and hooks his ankle round, grins like an idiot,

"We should just reheat the water," he shrugs. 

"I don't think we need to, the cauldron's enchanted to maintain temperature." 

"Wait, seriously?" 

George nods, still staring at Dream with this look of… Dream wants to say affection but that doesn't seem to encompass it, 

"Sapnap found it like three worlds back, I nicked it when I smacked him into lava and told him it burned up." 

Dream snorts, 

"You're such an asshole,"

"He'd do the same and you know he would!" 

They just look at one another, for a moment, and the first thin drops of rain begin to patter outside. 

"I thought you said snow," George murmurs, tucks a rogue curl behind Dream's ear, "that sounds like rain to me."

"Sometimes I'm wrong," Dream can't look away. 

George grins,

"I'll forgive you, just this once."

"Oh, thank you, you're too kind," Dream returns his smile.

"Of course."

Dream yawns, rubs his ankle along the outside of George's leg, and then, attempting to keep a straight face, whispers, "So… you wanna wash in my gamer-girl bathwater?" 

George chokes, snickers, and then shakes his head before kissing him again, 

"I hated that."

  
  


The washing is a process. 

Dream's legs tremble when he rises and George holds him up, only laughs at him once.

Dream flinches when he tries to wash the sweat off his collarbones, stares into the water at the mottled red and violet painting his skin, the crescent indentations of teeth pressed almost hard enough to draw blood, 

"Sorry," George murmurs, pressed to his other side. 

Dream shrugs. He can't say George didn't mean to, but he can pretend like it's by mistake and not design that he aches again, 

"It's fine," he says, drags the cloth over skin just barely broken, knows he'll have scabs by morning as George kisses his shoulder again, "Why do you keep doing that?" 

"Hm?" 

"That spot on my shoulder. You keep…" Dream makes vague gestures, flicks water up onto his chest accidentally and has to wipe it off. He looks at George's hands on the lip of the cauldron, knuckles white. 

He's quiet for a long time, before,

"I did that," George breathes. 

"What?" 

"Your scar. I did that. The first time I saw you… after."

Dream frowns, 

"Lots of people have given me scars, George," 

"I put my dagger through your shoulder and pinned you to the ground, and I wanted-" he cuts himself off, choked, "I wanted to-" 

"George," Dream reaches for him, but George jerks away, refuses to meet his eye,

"It was the first time I'd wanted to hurt you, and I did," he bares his teeth, swallows thickly, "and I hate this _thing_ it made me into." 

Dream watches his jaw clench, the tears well up in his eyes as he grips the cauldron's edge, grip punishing. 

"You couldn't help it," Dream states, "You didn't choose to be made this way." 

George scoffs bitterly, 

"I chose to hurt you." 

"I chose to leave." 

"It's not the same." 

Dream rubs the cloth between his thumb and fingers,

"No," he says, resigned, "I guess it isn't." 

George is staring into the water, letting himself cry but with shoulders squared, jaw set. 

"Every morning I wake up and I want to kill. I want to find some warm, soft thing and squeeze it until it crunches in my hands, until I can smell the blood, hear the pulse stop," Dream frowns, feels his stomach drop as George looks at him, sees him register the fear on Dream's face and grin miserably, "and Sapnap doesn't bother fighting it. Doesn't see the point, but I fucking hate it. I hate this- this _need_ in me this void with teeth that pulls and claws at my mind," and George turns, closes in toward Dream,

"And makes me want things that disgust me, makes me want to lean in close while you're scared like this and dig my teeth into your throat and bite down until you stop twitching, until you go cold and limp in my arms and I can taste the blood go stale," he's almost touching Dream now, and Dream is weeping too, quietly, eyes shut tight and waiting for the sharp pinprick pain and unbearable ripping heat of tearing skin. 

"But I can't," George sobs, and Dream feels the tickling softness of George's hair as he rests his head on Dream's collar, "I couldn't live with it," George's hand rises, and his palm rests over where Dream knows the scar is, raised and pale,

"this is everything I hate," he says, "that I gave into it in the first place. That I would hurt someone I-" he falters, "that I would hurt you." 

Dream lets out a breath, feels his chest ache with relief, and raises his arms to wrap around George. 

"I love you, George," he says, feels him tremble with caught breath and tears run down his skin.

He doesn't get an answer. 

He doesn't need one. 

The bedroll is laid out on a raised platform, cut out of the stone as the rain begins to pool on the cave floor, and Dream is grateful they hadn't got the chance to unroll it completely before, because inside it's clean and dry, smelling of warm wool and George. He lies on his back, and George climbs in at his side, takes his hand and holds it below his chin, presses his lips to Dream's knuckles. 

Dream smiles, feels all at once his body grow heavy as the bone-deep exhaustion sets in, 

"Goodnight, George."

George smiles back, soft and tired,

"Go to sleep, Dream," he whispers.

George is warm against him and the deep discomfort associated with hunter is gradually overpowered by affection, and Dream gives in to the weight that pulls him down and down and down, and shuts his eyes. 

For the first time in what feels like centuries, Dream does not dream of running. 

He wakes only once in the night, startles upright and flinches when his stitches pull, with George at his back and his face to the cool stone wall, and George smooths his hand over Dream's side, sighs, 

"It's okay, you're safe." 

Dream sinks back down. 

George curls around him, arm thrown over his hip. 

He doesn't remember anything after. 

  
  
  


Cool, pale light leaks through the cave entrance, pre-dawn and still spitting rain. Dream curls his legs up, warding off the cold damp that threatens his peace. 

He hums in appreciation as fingers card through his hair, 

"Come on, Dream, you need to get up now." 

He groans, smiles when George chuckles, 

"Good morning to you too. I'd let you sleep but there's things we have to do before I go." 

Dream rises, stretching high above his head with a yawn that cracks his jaw.

"Hey," 

"Hey," George leans against the outcropping, armourless and with what looks like most of Dream's inventory collected at his side. 

Dream rubs his eyes, blinks the disorientation away,

"What's going on?" 

George sighs, gives Dream an indecipherable look, and hands him the small jade box. 

"What?" 

George holds his hand over the clasp, opens it with him, 

"There. Now you can open it. You need it more than me." 

"George, thank you-" 

"Don't thank me. I need you to do one more thing for me, Dream," and George waits until Dream leaves the bedroll and dresses, clothes soft and clean, shoves the whole thing into the enderchest. 

"Here," Dream is handed a sword, iron, with an intricate crossguard. 

"Why're you-" 

George takes the blade in his hand, raises it to his throat.

"You need to do it. There's armour and food in the chest, and the cauldron. It needs to be you or they'll know something's up." 

Dream frowns, grip on the hilt shaky, 

"George-" 

George shifts the blade, presses his lips to Dream's and guides his hand, 

"I do too, Dream," and he draws the blade along his skin, scarlet bubbling up as his body falls limp, lies a moment before evaporating completely, leaving only the stain on the blade. 

A message appears in the back of Dream's mind, as he knows it has in the mind of every hunter. 

_Georgenotfound was slain by Dream._

Dream hears the blade clatter on the cold stone before he notices he's dropped it. 

He shoves the jade box into his inventory, fumbles for the blade, and does what he has been doomed to do, what he's always done best. 

He runs. 

  
  



End file.
